The Sam Whisperer
by The-Turducken-Affairs
Summary: Sam and Dean have a problem and they need Garth's help. (Warnings: Set vaguely in Season 8. Prior knowledge of Mr. Fizzle is helpful. Garth is the main POV.)


This is part of the **The-Turducken-Affairs' Mini Writing Extravaganza**, a self-proclaimed writing event in which I've dedicated this Saturday (actually, only part of it, because I did end up having to do things. Ew. Things.) to writing Supernatural stuff. I've written updates for four preexisting stories and wrote a new one shot! Hooray?

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**Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.**

**A/N: I love Garth. He's so generally lovely and chock full of quirkiness. Hope I do him justice! :O**

**Read, enjoy, review! :)**

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"_This is Habanero Hercules, here for all your nefarious otherworldly problems. If your life has taken a turn for the strange and you are experiencing ghostly, demonic, or similar omens, please leave your name and number at the beep. If something is coming for you __right now__, I'd suggest you run like hell and call back later."_

**BEEP.**

No freakin' way. It couldn't have come to this. Surely, even with all the bad karma in one colorful, extensive lifetime like his, there's no sound reason it should have all led to this. I mean, c'mon, he's desperate enough he's calling for help from-

"Garth! Man, quit trying to 'up your rep' and just leave your real name. Seriously dude, you're lucky I already know you."

He gives a heavy, weary sigh and then rubs his face, hoping to smooth away wrinkles and problems in one go. It doesn't work.

"We've got a problem on our end. We were on a hunt and Sam… Well, you should probably just meet us at the bunker."

* * *

He strolls up the paved walkway.

The sky is in stark contrast to the kind of day he has been having. While he has eaten the most delicious burrito he's ever had the pleasure to compact with the jowls of his face, found some snazzy fringe pants abandoned on a sidewalk (and isn't it just a cruel, cold world when a once loved item can just be cast aside, thrown away like trash?), and got the speaker in the drive-thru to call him Habanero Hercules, the weather is resolutely brewing with blackened clouds, thunderous threats, and a drizzle of rain.

Momentarily, he wonders if the brothers have been able to convince even the weather to do their bidding, but shakes that off with a good natured snort and a 'nah,' because the brothers may be angry a lot of the time, but they've got hearts of gold.

_*For this next part, it seems appropriate to imagine "No Diggity" by Blackstreet playing*_

As he gets nearer to the secretive, dank hidey-hole of Sam and Dean, he thrusts his sunglasses onto his face, his mouth ceremoniously forms itself into a very serious, straight line, and it's time to get his Garth on.

* * *

Two raps on the doorway to the famed bunker and a third rap after a decent pause later, Garth is meeting the end of a gun.

He blinks and the gun is gone, replaced by a wet splash of what he assumes is holy water and salt hitting his face. Then, finally, Garth is gifted with the sight of Dean's ever frowning face.

He looks worse than usual right now though. Honestly, Garth admires the usual balance of rugged, angry, and handsomely defined demeanor that Dean carries himself with, but it's just not happening for his brother in arms today. Instead, he's sporting a gaunt pallor, shadows that stretch along his body and seem to highlight dark smudges under his eyes, and Garth is pretty sure he looks nothing like an approachable human being you might wave to on the streets.

Dean scans behind Garth and growls out, "Get in. We don't have all day."

And as Garth has eyes and an ever improving survival instinct, he ducks into the brothers' humble abode without hesitation.

* * *

The doorway leads to a disarmingly large den of mysticality that somehow seems befitting of the larger than life brothers, who are made of underbelly America and plaid shirts.

His eyes roam, catching glimpses of nice, heavy wooded furniture and a scattering of books in varying progressions of being read, but he's torn away from any other observations by the cut of Dean's voice.

"C'mon Garth. Sam's up here."

_How did Dean get all the way up there?_ Garth wonders vaguely, because Dean is now on a level above the open space and solitary table, leaning against Victorian-like railing.

Garth notices a stairway and makes his way towards it. Internally, he hums a little to himself as he walks, the sound being vaguely similar to a certain spy soundtrack.

"I'm coming Dean. But Dean, can you tell me what's going on? Don't get me wrong, it's great to meet up with my best fri- uh- a fellow hunter, but I haven't seen Sam around at all yet," Garth asks a in friendly twang.

Dean just shoots Garth a glare and says, "He's down this next hall and on the left."

Garth does the only thing he can. He takes a few galloping steps to catch up to Dean and follows.

* * *

Dean pushes open one out of a handful of identical doors and breezes in like he owns the- oh, right.

Garth steps in next, but he does not see what he was hoping to see. Instead of a large lump of Sam occupying any of the various spaces within the room, the place is empty.

The desk is filled with a tidy pile of books and writing utensils. The nightstand has a notepad and another writing tool. The dresser is straight and neat. Shoes are lined against the wall beside the door, perfectly perpendicular to said wall. The bed is uncharacteristically untidy, but still, y'know, right there and ordinary.

Garth has put all his investigative hunting skills into scanning the room and yet, he's at a loss. Dean seems otherwise preoccupied, his eyes glued to the messy bed and Garth starts to get a very bad feeling.

Maybe Dean lured him here under the guise of something being wrong with Sam, but he really wanted Garth to come over and tidy up the Bunker. And really, that wouldn't be all that bad, except there was this one time he was on a hunt when-

"He's under the blanket."

Garth startles, gamely asks, "What?"

"Sam. He's under that pile of blankets."

_What?_ This time the question is thought inside his own head, but Garth still means it wholeheartedly. Dean seems to hear the question anyways, because he sighs and, with a roll of his eyes, pulls back the blanket.

Well, Dean wasn't exactly _wrong_. There is someone under the blanket, but he sure as Garth isn't a 6"4 sized conglomeration of muscles and hair named Sam Winchester. It's a _kid_. Garth almost says aww, but then he's remembers one his lady friend's favorite phrases, _'Time and place, Garth,'_ so he doesn't.

* * *

"No, no. I believe you Dean." Garth swears it up and down, again. He's getting close to the point where he'll pinky promise he means it, cross his heart and hope to die. But his mama always told him not to make a promise like that, so.

"I- I know it's kind of hard to swallow. But, I was there. I promise that's what happened." Dean is practically falling over himself to explain it and Garth's never seen Dean like this before. He's usually a brash, focused armament of hunting and assuredness.

"No, no. I believe it. It may be a little… new to me. The idea that a two century old, befuddled witch with an unfortunate boil brimming with all the botched magic she's stored over a lifetime could turn Sam into a kid when she went in for a boil treatment, but. Well, I've seen some crazy things myself; comes with the gig." And Garth resolutely does not bring up the time he came across the ghost of a tall, old man with a magnificent beard and hankering for lemon drops during that one month he was visiting Britain. Crazy things indeed.

Dean seems more convinced this time. Garth can tell because Dean nods like he's in charge again, and then suddenly he is in charge again.

"Okay, so the curse is pretty easy to lift. The witch was actually a pretty rockin' hag, despite all the dementia. Loves AC/DC- anyways. She told me the counter spell and I've got it all set up. The only thing now is I have to something Sam '_cherishes'_ and shake it over the bowl of ingredients. She said something about '_spreading the love'_…" Dean gets lost in thought at this point, and Garth knows it's his time to shine.

"Okay, so where can we find the thing Sam cherishes?" Garth is all over this like horseradish on a hotdog.

Dean deflates again. "I don't know. Sam is such a neat freak, I can't find anything and Sam- Sammy won't talk to me."

"Why not?"

This time, Dean seems to fill up with some fondness and says, "When we were kids, we had all sorts of rules. Sam was around the age he is now when I taught him about 'stranger danger' and told him to never, ever talk to a stranger no matter what."

And for this next part, Dean's eyes seem to crinkle with pained humor, "I'm a stranger to him right now."

Garth decides to brush over that, because he's a big believer in letting people find their own answers. So instead, he focuses on the magic related problem at hand and says, "This is perfect! I know exactly what to do!"

"Wh-" Dean goes to say, but Garth interrupts him with a wave of his hand and rushes down to the ground level of the bunker where he left his stuff.

* * *

He's scared (when this is over though, he'll never admit it, because Dean wouldn't be scared if he were here).

Last he remembers, he was in another motel room with Dean. They had to share a bed, because Dad was there to. So they were in bed, kicking at each other and hissing about who's the jerk or bitch and then Sam fell asleep.

And now he's here. Wherever here is.

The strange man has come by a lot of times, asking Sam about things that didn't make any sense to him. What was his favorite toy? What's his favorite book? What's something he thinks he will keep even when he grows up?

Sam doesn't understand why the guy was asking those sorts of questions. It puts him on edge. And where are his brother and Dad? When are they going to find him?

He just doesn't know the answer to anything.

* * *

Dean has been through an array of emotions today, and the ones he's got now are exasperation, skepticism, and annoyance. Garth will just have to show Dean how this never fails.

He's kneeled in front of Sam, ready to go and-

"Hi Sam! I'm Mr. Fizzles. I just want to help you."

* * *

He hears mumbling outside the room again. The man is coming back with the other man from earlier.

Sam doesn't know what their plan is, but he steels himself just the same.

The second man, the tall, Pinocchio nosed one (and Sam would usually never think about someone like that, but he's been kidnapped. He thinks he's allowed some leeway with his name calling.) is kneeled down in front of him. There's this… sock with a face on his hand.

This is ridiculous. It gets worse when the sock starts to move, as if it were _'talking_._'_

"Hi Sam! I'm Mr. Fizzles. I just want to help you."

And- and… It's not a sock anymore.

Mr. Fizzles has an orb of light around him. He's going to help Sam. Mr. Fizzles is practically singing with purity. He's like an angel. His nearness compels Sam.

Sam can't help but to answer.

"Hi Mr. Fizzles."

"Well hey there buddy. I know this must seem awfully scary to you. But I promise. We're all friends here. We just need your help, Sam. Just answer this one little question for us, and then you can go back home!"

"Okay." Sam wants to help people. Like Dad and Dean do.

"What is your most precious thing?"

Sam goes to answer, but he's interrupted. "Not back home silly! Here, in this room. What is it, Sam?"

Sam is confused. He's never been in this room before today, but… Somehow an answer is bubbling out of him, like he _has_ been here before; like this room is somehow his.

"The duffel under the desk. There's an inner pocket, not that hard to find. It's in there."

"Thanks buddy! Everything will be just dandy when you wake up so **go to sleep, Sam**"

So Sam falls asleep.

* * *

Garth helps Mr. Fizzles come to life and the answers fall out of Sam. Easy as finding a mall cop outfit for one of his identifies during a hunt.

He turns slowly towards Dean, a triumphant grin on his face. "Well?"

"Yeah, yeah. Great job Garth." It comes out reluctantly and Dean is already turning away to search through the duffel, but it's good enough for Garth.

He gets up from the ground, knees cracking, and he makes his way over to Dean. "So what did Sam stow away in there?"

Dean gets up, something in hand, and looks passed Garth. He says, "Come on. We've got to finish the potion." And strides out of the room awfully quick like.

At this point, Garth's getting pretty used to Dean's bossiness and just follows.

* * *

The potion ends up being pretty quick to finish up. Dean's wasn't lying when he said he was on the last part.

All Garth has to do is stand there and watch as Dean mutters some Latin, pulling out some sort pendant from his pocket and waving it over the potion.

Garth doesn't know the story behind the necklace, an amulet on a leather cord, but he guesses that must be Sam's cherished object.

* * *

Not long later, the spell has worked and everything is in some sort of working order.

Sam is full sized and groggily lumbering behind Dean. Dean looks either like he has to poop or like he's going to hold his breath until he gets what he wants (Garth decides that must be Dean's concerned face).

Garth is just pleased as peaches to be surrounded by such great guys.

Feelings of joy and victory start to grow inside him. Today has been a great day all around. He's had the world's best burrito, is the proud new owner of an article of clothing with fringe, was called Habanero Hercules, got to spend some time with his two favorite hunters, saw Sam as an adorable seven year old, and helped save the day!

He can't resist the manly urges of best friend camaraderie as they surge within him, so Garth hops right into Sam and Dean's (personal) bubble, takes out his phone, and says, "Okay guys! On three, say besties!

One,

Two,

Three,

BESTIES!"

And his phone camera clicks, forever documenting this fantastic day.


End file.
